


Trellis

by Hermit9



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Kidnapping, Mentions of past abuse, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, POV Outsider, Smut, Voyeurism, worldview shifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-10 04:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: Life in Haven was pure. Judith was devoted, but following the Light required perfection, and discipline and punishment were the tools to achieve that state. It was known and understood, as fundamental as breathing air. Until the fire and the late summer rain stole her away.





	1. Ruth

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [FestiveFerret](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/profile) for the beta!
> 
> And many thanks to [TwistedLight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedLight) for the spot check and translation help with the Russian dialogue!
> 
> Inspired from a headcanon post I saw on Tumblr and can't for the life on me find again. If this rings a bell, send me the post to that I can properly credit the author!

The fire came on a warm summer night. Summers meant long working hours, for it would be foolish to waste free-given light to sloth and leisure, at least for those whose place it was to work. Though it was nine at night, the sky still held a memory of light as the preparations for the communal meal were finalized. The smoke was acrid and strangely coloured; it made the world go blurry and Judith’s lungs scream, but there was very little heat. In fact, it was warmer outside, once she stepped out of the kitchen and away from the fumes. The grip of Novitiate Ruth on her arm didn’t relent; it was strong as steel. Judith was grateful at first, the air outside was easier to breathe, though she did so between coughing sprees, and she was probably covered in snot and tears. It was a dreadful thought, for there were standards to be met, if she was ever to be chosen to count hers amongst the pure’s progeny. Judith pulled back, they had to go help and make sure the others were alright, and get back to their duties. But Ruth didn’t stop once they cleared the smoke, she kept walking towards the compound's doors, her gait steady and her fingers were manacles around Judith’s arm.

Ruth was new, not young but pretty in ways that could be described as inspired. She had been welcomed to live with them in record time, blazing through the curriculum and scriptures. She would not be long in the working class, there was discussion amongst the council to elevate her before the end of the month. She was a vessel too perfect to be left in the dirt or bound with clothes. Judith told herself she wasn’t jealous. It helped, on most nights, as she was assessed and denied her own ascension with barely concealed sneers. 

Voices rose behind them, men screaming all at once, with orders and commands. 

“We have to go back, we should not be here.” Judith took a deep breath, she had rank and seniority on the Novitiate. She dug her heels in. “It is forbidden to leave the Haven of our home. You will be punished for this, but I can ask them to be lenient — if you let go of me this instant and come back.”

The hand on her arm vanished, but Judith was pushed forward, further away from home. She could now see the men coming for them, armed with rifles and shotguns, anger visibly dripping from them, even from a distance. Ruth ducked low in a movement akin to a silk scarf collapsing under its own weight. She swung her leg in an arc and traced a semi-circle in the beaten earth of the path with her toes. A high-pitched noise followed, and tiny holes appeared just beyond the line, in puffs of dirt. There was a gleaming object in each of the holes, round and metallic. “Bullet,” thought Judith, and the realization made her stomach roll. The ones coming to rescue her were to far and none of them had taken aim in their direction. Judith — like all the others Initiates — had been warned. Warned that outsiders wanted what they had, that they would come and take them by force and sully them for their own causes. She was being kidnapped by envoys of evil. 

“За эту черту никого не подпускать,”said Ruth. The words were gibberish and wrong, all sharp angles. 

Ruth grabbed Judith by the elbow and tugged her away, and she followed because the pressure was creating bruises on her skin. She twisted and turned and tried to look at her protectors coming for her, cried out to them, pleading their understanding. The first of them reached the line Ruth had drawn, and Judith watched in horror as blood exploded from his leg when he stepped across it. Jonah collapsed with a scream, though Nathaniel was quick to pull him back. A new line of bullet appeared. The meaning seemed clear enough. 

“Let’s go, before we have to deal with the dogs.” Ruth was dusting herself off, seemingly unbothered by the screaming and the blood. She started walking again, without bothering to renew her death grip. Judith remembered the dogs. They were thin, mean and vicious. Their breaths were always loaded with the scent of carrion and death. 

“Just as there are those whose place it is to work, and those whose place it is to perpetuate awakening and bring lightning the world, so do beasts have stations. There are beasts of labour, and those whose sacrifice feeds us. And there are beasts of hunt and retribution, to carry swiftly the pain of betrayal and defection.” She said the words in a singsong voice, rote memorization taking over her thoughts. She hurried after Ruth. If the council was ready to unleash the dogs upon them, she was already sullied in their eyes. Some deep-seated survival instinct made her unwilling to stand and wait to be hunted down.

Darkness covered them, night rushing in from the sides of the road. It came at them from the trees and the thick underbrush, making Judith question if that had always been the way night fell, away from the light. There were more screams behind them, mixed with sounds she could now identify as muffled gunfire. Then silence, for minutes that might have been hours, broken only by the sound of howls. Ruth had led them off the main road, walking the uneven ground of a deer track as if it were a well-lit street. The branches kept snapping back at Judith’s arms, leaving welts and scratches. 

There was a muffled sound ahead and to the left of them, like a great mass landing on the floor. It reminded Judith of the sound of the heavy, cotton flour sacks as they were tossed into the pantries, or the sound effects of ninjas before movies became a forbidden thing. The sound resolved into a humanoid shape, taller and wider than anyone had a right to be. It was covered in black fabric and muted glints of metal, except for one arm that stood out in dull silver. He was holding a rifle in his arms, settling against his elbow as if it weighed nothing. As if Death were an extension of himself.

"Машина готова. Иди. До убежища я сам доберусь," the man’s voice said, and it sounded cold. His face was covered by some sort of mask, and his eyes were hidden by mirrored lenses. But still, Judith could feel the burn of his gaze upon her bare arms and uncovered hair, weighing and judging. This then, was for whom she was being stolen, like a lamb being led to slaughter. 

Judith fainted. 

She was lying on something soft, but the angle was wrong for it to be a bed. There was light around her, and she was warm, almost uncomfortably warm. Judith blinked her eyes open, feeling sore and groggy. She was lying on a couch, the fabric cover of it a soft, worn, red. There was a blanket over her and a thin, lumpy pillow under her head. She sat up awkwardly, bringing the blanket along to wrap around herself. She was still fully clothed, minus her shoes, which puzzled her. Maybe they had a blessing that required her to be awake. Ruth was on the loveseat across from her, curled up like a cat with her feet underneath her. She was reading a book with bright and garish colours on the cover, with pages too thick to be scriptures. 

The sounds of heavy boots outside killed the words of her questions before they could surface, leaving their bitter corpses tasting of fear on her tongue. The man from woods pushed the door open. He had removed the mask and goggles but was still wearing the same military-looking clothes. His hair was long, tied in a messy bun at the back of his head. He looked across the room as he walked in, eyes jumping from object to object in a tactical sweep. She felt his gaze on her, then it was gone; she had been seen and dismissed. His eyes were very pale, almost sterling silver.

“There are fresh towels in the bathroom,” said Ruth, without looking up from her book. 

“How am I doing on time?”

“You have 90 minutes left on the timer.” She looked up at him. “We’ll live, even if the stew has to sit for a while. Go take a shower.”

“Yes, ma’am!” He threw her a wave or a salute and removed his boots before walking further into the house. He disappeared behind the first door in the hallway. He made no sound as he walked.

“Basement’s the only locked door in the house,” said Ruth, as she turned the page of her book. “The bedrooms and bathroom are in that same hallway, kitchen and dining room behind me. Feel free to explore.”

Judith looked at her for a moment, fingers gripping the edge of the blanket nervously. “The only door?” She looked at the front door, at the boots discarded carelessly and the darkness behind the glass pane. 

“The only one. You’re free to verify if you want.” Ruth looked up at her. “You’re not a prisoner here, but the property is quite isolated. If you decide to make a run for it, you’d be better off after dinner.”

It was a test. It could only be a test. She wasn't naïve enough to fall for it. Besides, running outside in the dark would be stupid and an invitation to break an ankle. Judith pulled the blanket over her head and let herself fall asleep again.

When she awoke the second time, it was to an insistent electronic beeping. She was alone in the living room, and Ruth’s book lay abandoned on the coffee table, face down in a spine-breaking position. Judith winced as she got up, pins and needles rushing down her arm. The sound was coming from the kitchen, and she followed it, bleary-eyed and sleep warmed. She stopped on the threshold, trying to make sense of what her eyes were seeing. 

The scary man from the woods was standing on the toes of one foot, trying to reach the blinking timer button of a crock pot on the countertop with the big toe of his other foot. He’d changed out of the military clothes, into loose, fabric pants and a soft looking, red shirt. Both of his hands were covered in flour; there was flour in his dark hair and more high on one cheek. A ball of mostly formed dough, what looked like bread, was in front of him. 

“Sorry, didn't mean to wake you,” he said, looking over his shoulder with a smile. His eyes were pale blue, not silver, now that she was close. He sheepishly lowered his leg until he was standing normally. “Could you get that?”

Judith nodded and carefully walked around the kitchen island, staying out of arm's reach, to turn off the device. She kept her gaze low and averted. The man didn’t mention her earlier boldness, which she chalked up to another test. 

“Thank you,” he said when the noise stopped. “I’m sorry for that. Natasha went to sleep as well. They weren't kidding with the sleep deficit back there.” 

He wasn’t looking at her, shaping the dough by pulling away sections and folding them underneath until he had a unified ball. He dropped it on a baking tray and rummaged through a drawer, retrieving a thin curved knife and slashing three scores over the loaf. 

“I’m James, by the way,” he said as he bent to put the tray into the oven along with a bowl of water. “Most people call me Bucky.”

He gave Judith time to answer but didn't seem bothered when she stayed silent. He moved through the kitchen around her, as he cleaned the countertop and scrubbed the flour from the tiny crevasses of his prosthetic hand under the faucet. Judith watched from the corner of her eyes, but the movements were smooth and natural. Had she not seen the metallic scales climbing to his shoulder, she would have sworn only the hand was artificial. And even then. The fingers flexed and opened and moved better than most people's flesh and bones.

He cradled a large salad bowl in his arm, bone-pale and painted with thin blue designs. He placed it on the clean counter and produced a large chef knife from somewhere. Produce was ready in the fridge, and he flowed easily into assembling a garden salad. Judith fidgeted. She wasn’t in his way, or at least never seemed to be in his way, but the whole scene was wrong. It itched at her, like ants marching up and down her spine or the ghost impression of past bruises.

“Stop it,” she said, in an exhale and with barely any projection to her voice. She felt herself blush and fixed her gaze on the ground. It wasn’t her place to give orders. She braced for the correction for several breaths. It didn’t come. Judith realized the kitchen had gone silent, the rhythm of the knife stilled. She risked a quick glance up, and James was standing perfectly immobile, looking at her with curiosity but without any anger or hostility. A seemingly forgotten stick of celery hung from his lip, caught mid-chew. When she met his eye, he smiled — or smirked — a short twitch of his lips.

“No celery for you?”

“I… it’s not right for you to be doing the work,” Judith said, surprised at her own boldness. “I should be doing this. Or Ruth, I guess.”

“Well, if you want to help, the table needs setting.” James’ voice was even, and he shrugged. “The plates and glasses are in that cupboard next to the sink. There’s a tablecloth in the drawer next to you.” He paused to think, while he swept quartered cherry tomatoes into the bowl, juice and seeds splattering from between his fingers. “We’ll need separate bowls for the salad. And a little saucer or cup for Natasha’s salad dressing?”

It was a relief to have a task or a purpose. Maybe this was what she had been taken for, a worker to fill in what was clearly missing. Overlooked once more, but it came now as a bittersweet relief. Overlooked, even here.


	2. Natasha

Judith slipped out of bed with the dawn the next day, routine ingrained over the weight of sleep in her limbs. Her room felt incredibly luxurious; the bed was new, the sheets freshly laundered and no one else slept in it, an entire space dedicated to only one person. There was a sitting nook with a well-padded chair by the window and a small lacquered table beside it. She smoothed the sheets down as she exited the bed. Clothes hung in the closet, in her size, all identical. The tags had been removed, but they were clearly new, from the long skirts to the button down shirts and the selection of scarves and hats. 

As promised, the front door was unlocked. The property was indeed remote. There was a long dirt driveway, where a monster black SUV was currently parked. It bore no licence plate. Judith walked down the driveway then down the one lane road at the end of it. She cleared what was now evidently the ridge of a small hill. In the warm golden light of dawn, the view was breathtaking. Row upon rows of deeply green plants spread on either side of the road as it lazed down the hill. There were wooden structures around and over the plants, and netting underneath it. It brought to mind Italy or France, in the documentaries she’d watched as a girl. Wine country. There was a dark purple mountain range in the distance and other hills - or jutting cliffs - dusted with short, dry grass, midway between here and there. The pine trees were the only familiar thing. Judith did not think she’d been asleep long enough to fly all the way over the ocean, but she might as well have, for all that she knew where she was. 

Coffee was waiting on the table when she got back to the house.

Judith stared at the silver carafe and delicate, bone china cups. There was a bowl with lumps of sugar on one side, and a folded note telling her there was milk in the fridge and to help herself. She poured herself a cup and sat out on the porch to listen to the birds as they chattered. Trellises over the grapes meant these fields were cared for and tended. She could walk until she found the winery and then what? She had no money, no ID, and no idea where she was. No address to give to return to, as the Haven was hidden from outsiders and she had been driven there at night and with her eyes covered. She could always go back to her roots and find the classes, plead for her return. Would they even welcome her back, after the chaos and the blood? Judith knew the answer to that question: she would be shunned and left on the streets until rot claimed her. 

It was safer here, in the strange house under the pines. She wasn’t sure yet what James and the woman she had known as Ruth — but here was apparently Natasha — wanted with her. Maybe she would get a new given name too, like she had been dubbed Judith and left behind her old city name, shedding away that life. She could work and find her place, as she had at the Haven. Choices were dangerous things, even if they weren’t much of one. 

James was in the kitchen when she walked back, stirring a pot set on the backburner, a carton of eggs by his elbow. His hair was damp and curling at his neck, making the material of his shirt darker there. “How do you take your eggs?” he asked without turning around.

The question took her by surprise. It was such a normal, inconspicuous question. But she had no answers. She’d made the food she was asked to make, in the way she had been shown and ate the food others made with gratitude. Even before Haven, that had been the truth of things. What she preferred was never asked, yet alone factored in. “I don’t know. Not scrambled,” she said, realizing he was looking at her now, waiting for an answer.

“Ok, not scrambled, noted. I like mine sunny side up, so the yolk runs into the porridge. Natasha likes her well done. Either one of those sound good?”

Movement behind him caught her eye, and she didn’t answer. The glass french doors at the back of the house overlooked a paved patio and a cluster of trees. Wooden sticks and planks had been tied to the tree branches and were swinging from coarse ropes. Natasha stood roughly in the centre. She was dancing, arms in graceful arcs, high kicks and jumps. The objects swirled and swelled around her. Judith blinked, and the scene reasserted itself, cause and effect getting into proper order. Natasha was hitting the wooden parts as they came near, sending them careening away and tangling the ropes as she dodged and hit, breaking a few of them in the process. It was a deadly, controlled, flurry of blows; there was sweat running down her back and into her eyes, shining on the exposed skin of her scalp where the braids held her hair away. She was smiling, or maybe snarling, as she went through the motions.

Natasha suddenly started toward the house, meeting Judith’s eye with a shrug. Behind her, the ropes swung still, wild and clattering violently. By the time she walked into the kitchen, her breathing was deep and even, as if she’d been doing nothing more strenuous than a slow stroll. Judith froze as she felt a warm hand on her upper-arm, gently pushing her towards the breakfast nook by the door. She dropped her gaze to the tip of her grey socks, focusing on the tile grout of the floor, muscles tensing to resist the coming blow. Adrenaline coursed through her, making her heart flutter and drum against her ribcage, bile rising and blocking off her throat. What a fool she was, unable to make it even one day without making a mistake. Letting herself think there was any safety, letting her actions and respect slip. The touch was gone from her arm, and yet she stood as still as she could, head bent and breathing shallow. There was the scratch of chairs against the tile floors and voices talking softly, though the blood rush in her ears distorted the words into meaningless sound. There were black spots dancing in her vision and her lungs were burning.

“Judith? Judith?” 

Ru— Natasha’s voice was close, the tone neutral. There was neither pity nor anger there, and she kept repeating her name until Judith nodded, weakly. 

“Come and sit. Eat. You’ll feel better once you do.”

Autopilot guided her, towards the table and sitting down, eyes still downcast. The bowl was pushed towards her with a spoon, creamy oats topped with a glistening perfectly cooked sunny side up egg. It smelled of strange spices, not of the cinnamon she was expected. Judith risked a glance around the table, but the other two weren’t paying attention to her, focused on their own food. Natasha’s bowl was barely bigger than her hand as she held it. The egg in it was matte with the edges crispy and brown. Jame’s bowl was large, large enough that two hands would not touch while holding it, probably meant for salads. Her own bowl was just the right size and she stirred the egg into the oats, her stomach rolling uneasily. She was helpless here, Goldilocks waiting for the bears. 

The porridge was warm — if strange — but it settled as a dense ball, like a fist, in her stomach. She stirred it around, so as to avoid any further ire. The other two resumed talking like nothing had happened. They were discussing meal plans and grocery shopping, as if this was a normal house and she was nothing but their guest. They asked, in turns and both lightly, if there was anything she needed, but she shook her head and stayed silent. She managed to swallow a few spoonfuls by the time they were done, the rest congealed into a sad gloop. Judith chided herself: she should have eaten more while it was warm instead of having the same bowl brought back to her at lunch. James took the bowl away without a word, dropping it into the sink, filled with sudsy water.The jingle of keys snapped her out of her trance, and she turned in time to catch Natasha’s casual wave before the door closed behind her. The deep rumbling growl of the SUV and the crush of the gravel reinforced the point. She’d left. And Judith was alone.

She was instantly tetanized and hyper-aware, of the cold sweat already drying on her back and the clammyness of her hands. Of every sound in the small house and outside, the singing bird and rattling wood and the wet slosh of dishes being washed. She’d thought James would be the one driving to whatever town was nearest to get whatever supplies were required. It was the proper order of things, and though she had not lived with Natasha long at Haven, she knew she was a good worker. She would have shown her the tasks and told her what was expected of her, once the man of the house was safely out of earshot. She’d never accounted for her to be the one driving away. 

James didn’t seem to mind, putting the washed dishes on a rack to air dry and then leaving to rummage in his room. He was strange, never acting the way Judith expected him to act. It left her reeling, like she’d missed a step on the stairs or had a bad ear infection that made the ground swell like the sea. She expected him to gruffly tell her what to do, or yell at her for the fact that she’d done nothing today other than sit down and be a waste of both time and space. Or drag her to his room, second door on the left in the hallway, the one she had to walk by to get to her own assigned room. He’d slept alone there yesterday, but surely that wasn’t a normal occurrence: no one kept two women around to spend the night cold and unsatisfied. 

What she did not expect was for him to emerge with a small wicker basket in one hand and a bundle of clothes over one shoulder, setting both down on the coffee table in the living room. Curiosity wormed its way past the fear still wrapped around Judith’s lungs like a many clawed coil. She sat on the couch opposite him, careful to keep as much distance as she could. The basket contained spools of thread in a gamut of colours and a vaguely potato-shaped pincushion with cartoonishly distraught eyes.

James had a soft, green, cotton shirt in his hands, and he was carefully working a needle and thread through a round, ragged edged hole in the fabric. His fingers poked out of two more holes, trying to maintain tension to make the work easier. The thread was off by several shades, too dark and too blue against the green. He didn’t seem to mind, weaving the thread around and around, darning over the bullet hole. She watched him work for a few minutes, waiting for a sign that this was a ruse, hair at the back of her neck standing up in anticipation. When nothing came, she leaned over and picked up the pair of heavy black pants. There was a rip on the right thigh, off the seam and towards the front.

“You’ll want a heavy needle for those,” he said without looking up. “There’s kevlar layers sandwiched in the fabric. Wait, here…” He trailed off, holding the needle between his lips so that he’d have a free hand to rummage through the sewing kit. Dislodged by his movement, the potato pincushion rolled forlornly off the table. James made a happy, victorious noise and rattled a small orange plastic case, handing it over to Judith. He looked up at her, a flash of blue through his loose hair that had fallen and hidden part of his face, then seemed to reconsider. He placed the box on the table and pushed it towards her side. “Those will work best,” he said once he’d removed the needle from his mouth. He bent down and retrieved the pincushion, patting it as he set it back on the table. “Sorry, little guy,” he said, gently.

She waited until he had settled back on the loveseat before picking up the box, retreating to the relative safety of her own couch in a scuttle. Five needles, longer and thicker and with bright blue heads, were in the box, if not properly secured. Judith opened it carefully and snapped the unused ones in place, then reached for the heavy duty thread. It was a clean rip, looked like it had been made by a knife or scissors. It would be simple enough to mend. There were thimbles scattered amongst the thread, but none of them fit properly, too slender or too big. A half thorn package of sticky thimble pads was buried under them all. It’d be good enough. 

Her hands was cramping, fingers and wrists stiff and numb before she realized he’d moved away from the living room. Judith shook out her hand, rolled her head, and heard the muscles and bones crack in her neck. The light had shifted across the room, and she blinked as she looked around. It was closer to noon; Natasha wasn’t back yet. Her thumb hurt, and she rubbed it absentmindedly; it would probably bruise by the next morning. She folded the pants — quietly pleased with how she could barely see her stitching — and put them down on the table. 

James had worked his way through two shirts in the same time frame, as well as a handful of mismatched socks. He had quick fingers and no need for a thimble himself, an apparent bonus to having an arm made of robotic parts. Judith looked through the remaining pile and pulled up an almost sheer, robin egg blue, silk babydoll, lined with white, scalloped lace. One of the shoulder straps had come undone, thread frayed at the seam. She looked up in puzzlement, meeting the amused eyes of the man, as he walked back to her, carrying two steaming bowls and a plate balanced on his elbow. 

“Natashka’s. I didn’t ask,” he said. “Could you make room on the table?”

She piled the clothes on the floor and moved the basket on top of them, as he laid down the food. Judith was fully expecting the same food as breakfast, reheated maybe as a kindness, but she had been rude to not eat it in the first place. It would be an easy lesson about showing proper gratitude. Instead, it was the stew from last night, cubes of beef with carrots and potatoes, warm and familiar. He’d brought the bread too, with a little bowl of butter. Tears gathered at the back of her eyes, hot and stinging.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Sorry?” 

“Being nice and refusing to tell me what you want from me.”

“I don’t want anything from you. This isn’t about that.”

“Then what?” She wiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks, a steady stream like an overflowing cup. “Why bring me here and not make use of me? Why?”

His eyes snapped back to hers, narrowing a bit. Offended, maybe. “This isn’t about that. I won’t touch you, and certainly not in the ways you seem to think I would.” His voice softened a bit, but she could no longer see anything through her tears. “It’s… it’s about what you want, really, in the end.”

“I don’t want anything.” 

“That’s ok too.” He looked up, and Judith felt that he was not looking at the whitewashed pine boards of the ceiling. He sighed, the sound of it rattling around his oversized frame. Then there was silence, broken by the sound of a spoon scraping against a bowl. 

Judith sat and let herself cry until the tears stopped coming, her head felt empty and heavy, her lungs aching. There was an edge of a headache forming, but somehow the release felt good. There had been, true to his word, no reprimand for the emotional display, no pinch to her arm or slap to her thigh. Food was still waiting for her when she calmed down, and though her stomach was tied up in knots, it went down easily enough. 

That night, when Natasha came home, Judith watched as James undid the noviciate braids that contained her hair. Natasha shook them free and smiled, a wide, girlish thing. It was the first proper smile Judith had seen from her. 


	3. James

It took two weeks for them to find a rhythm inside the house on the hill. In some weird way Judith felt like a child, pushing boundaries and limits, and feeling lost when she found none. She could sleep in and waste the day away with no repercussions, a privilege she quickly used until it had lost its sheen of novelty. There were books in the living room, which she was allowed to read. Novels and science books and all sorts of subjects she’d been told before were not meant to rot the brains of women. When she expressed interest in a subject, more books appeared. She was still unsure of what she was meant to do, but the other two seemed less like captors than a reluctant grey zone of friends.

The first time she saw James and Natasha fight, it came as a surprise.

They were standing in the backyard, in the cluster of trees Natasha usually used for her training routine. The ropes were wrapped and tied around the trees, leaving only the space and the spotty grass on the beaten earth. July had crept up on the valley, and there was more warmth in the air, intertwined with the humidity of summer. Natasha was wearing a one-piece, black outfit, so skin tight it had to have been made only for her. James made Judith take a step back. He was dressed as he had been the first time she saw him. The mask hid his face and made his eye look hard and angry. The tactical jacket emphasized just how broad he was, the metal of his arm exposed and catching the light as he moved. The plates slid over one another, fluid, creating gaps and tightening. It looked alive. Alien and dangerous. Judith realized that she’d never seen him without long sleeves around the house, despite the heat. 

As she watched, Natasha launched herself up in a cartwheel, landing on James’ shoulder. She wrapped her legs around his arms and swung forward, trying to use her body weight to bring him down. James stumbled a bit then his free arm hooked under hers and he threw her off. She rolled upon landing, coming up from a crouch with a smile, twirling a matte black blade between her fingers. She planted it at the edge of the patio, where two other knives already stood. She said something, but it was muffled by the distance and the glass.

When Natasha turned back to resume position Judith cracked the door open, stepping out unto the patio. The stones were warm under her bare feet. The sound alerted James, who looked back her way, only for a split second. It was apparently enough of a window for Natasha to launch another attack. She kicked at his midsection, moving with the momentum of it and twisting out of his grip. She hooked her fingers on the edge of the mask, but couldn’t avoid the open palm blow coming, staggering back a few steps. The mask fell to the ground between them.

“My point,” she said. “You only have one left for me to take you know…”

“That was cheating,” he answered, but there was no heat in his voice. There may even have been a teasing tone. 

He flashed a feral smile and changed from defence to attack. Where she was fluidity and acrobatics, he was minimalistic efficiency. And he was fast. Natasha tried to spin away, somehow climbing up on his shoulders, facing him this time. She aimed to strike at his head with her elbow but he grabbed both her hands and let himself fall, trapping her under his body weight. Judith gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth to muffle the sound almost immediately. She could see the brassy red of Natasha’s hair against the grass. Her mind supplied images for broken ribs and dislocated shoulders, of bruises that felt like they would never heal. Natasha’s legs had gone limp from the impact, no longer holding on to James’ shoulders. He was still holding her hands above her head, pinned to the ground. James moved slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, and Judith thought he would kiss or bite her, but he settled at the crook of her neck, like a cat going to sleep. Natasha’s laughter startled the birds from the tree, bright peals of it echoing and bumbling up in breathless mirth.

“Ok, ok, I yield. We can try your weird fish thing for dinner.”

The weird fish thing ended up being a mess of sauteed noodles with cuttlefish and shrimp. It was spicy and filling without being heavy. Judith and Bucky shared a smirk when Natasha went for a second helping, taking more than the barely two forkfuls he’d put on her plate.

“Not a word,” she said, without turning to them. 

The next morning brought a strange nervous energy into the house. Like an electrical hum, tension about to snap, or the moment before the clouds finally burst in a storm. Judith couldn’t find the source; the house was empty from what she could see. It wasn’t unusual. Natasha was usually the one to leave and run errands, more often than not making it a whole day thing, coming back home with the dusk. There was only one car. Judith did not know where James went when he left, but he did leave, and no one mentioned it when he came back. The black SUV was still in the driveway that morning, silent. 

Judith started the coffee maker, sure of one thing: whenever the others returned they’d want coffee. Sometimes she wondered if they lived off the stuff, black and into the late hours of the night. The machine groaned and hissed as the water warmed up and dripped into the carafe. It masked the sound of the basement door unlocking, but could not quite mask the voices that emerged from the stairwell.

“I don’t like it.” Natasha. Her voice was cold, with an undercurrent of anger to it. Judith couldn’t remember having heard her sound this way before. It bothered her, the sudden unknowable depths it revealed.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to go.” She sounded petulant this time. 

They reached the top of the stairs, and Judith joined them with mugs of coffee. Natasha was standing in the doorway to the basement, in her sleep pants and a tank top. Her hair was unbrushed and messy. Judith did not know if she’d actually slept. James was strapped into his battle gear. He was wearing the pants Judith had mended and was otherwise mostly covered in weapons. A large rifle hung low along his leg, the sling of it catching the gun between his shoulder blades in a way that felt instinctively unsafe. The barrel rattled against the tile as he knelt to lace on his boots. 

“I’m not leaving the team without range support. Barton’s home and neither of us is nearly suicidal enough to make him leave his wife with the baby and only an hour and a half of sleep.”

Natasha made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “The intel is shit.”

“The intel is always shit. They don’t call me for the good PR photo ops.” He got back up. The tinted goggles were pushed in his hair, trapping the locks there. His eyes were lined with kohl, messy and charcoal black. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.” He smiled at Judith and reached for the coffee, waiting for her to put it in his hand rather than grabbing it. 

Natasha sighed and left her post by the basement door, ignoring Judith entirely. She stepped into James’ space, cheek against the buckles on his chest, arms half raised to his shoulder. “I still don’t like it,” she said. “Promise to be careful?”

He folded his arms over her, loosely so he was holding her but not restraining. He was so much bigger that it looked like she was being swallowed by leather and chrome. “I’m always careful, Natashen'ka,” he said, so low Judith barely heard him. He lowered his head to drop a kiss on her forehead, by the hairline. 

“Bullshit,” Natasha replied, but there was no heat, and it came out a bit like a sigh. “I’ve seen you and Rogers in the field.”

Before he could answer the house rumbled, a high pitched vibration making the glass shake in the windows. A shadow moved over the house, loud and mechanical. It whined and hissed, and made the trees bend from the displaced air. There was a lower sound behind it, almost below hearing but Judith could feel it in her bones. 

“My ride’s here,” he said. “See you on the other side.” Then he was out of the door, mask covering his mouth and goggles over his eyes, jogging easily to the hovering plane-like craft on stand-by just out of the driveway, where the trees grew sparse. He was still holding the bright yellow, pineapple mug.

Natasha closed the door before the plane thing could take off, loudly enough that the already rattling glass protested. She retreated to her room and slammed that door as well. Judith looked at the unclaimed cup in her hand with a pit forming in her stomach. It was not an auspicious morning. 

Natasha did not come out at noon, or out of the tawny sunset, or by the rise of the moon. Judith found her near midnight, curled on the couch in her cat-like manner. She was holding an aluminum and glass contraption, sound muted but the flickering light was strong enough to cast shadows across the room and into the kitchen. It was the first piece of technology Judith had seen in the house, or in years, really. The metal bits had the sharp spike that read Stark Industries in matte black, like a scar. The sight of it churned in her, it tasted hot and bitter at the back of her throat. They trusted her with unlocked doors and open grounds but not with technology. Not with the world. Anger. The ashen taste was anger, and it had been a long time since Judith had tasted it. Anger made you reckless and do things that earned punishment. She wasn’t quite sure, not anymore, that anger lead you from the Light, but she remembered the pain. It was a slow poison, rots you from the inside. 

“Have you eaten?” she asked, choosing the safer path. The more immediate and animal part of humans. Shelter, food, warmth. Comfort. 

“I’m not your servant, get it yourself.” Natasha’s voice was flat. She didn’t move.

“Not what I was asking,” said Judith with a sigh. She walked to the kitchen, leaving the lights off and navigating by the flickers of the tablet. As she got behind Natasha she could see the images on it, a succession of overly stiff people sitting at desks. News stations, flickering from all over the world. There were plates in the refrigerator, neatly labelled containers. A selection of crudités and a little bowl of dip with twin “snack #1” stickers on them. She took them out and brought them to the living room, sitting on the other couch. The dip was hummus, homemade and heavy on the tahini.

“You should have some,” said Judith. 

“I don’t _have_ —” there was a heavy emphasis on the word “—to do anything.” 

“Suit yourself.” She picked up a few carrots and the crunch of them as she chewed was almost indecent in the silence.

She worked through a good half of the plate, hungry now that she was eating, before speaking again. “Did you find him yet?”

“No.” Natasha stretched, toes reaching the far side of the couch and the bones of her back cracking. “Even if I did, what good would it do, half a world away or so?” 

The tablet, discarded on the table continued to scan and change. There was sound now, low whispers of voices. Some in English, most in languages Judith couldn’t name. It was vertiginous and soothing all at once. It lulled her to sleep.

She woke up with a sore back and a crick in her neck, sometime after dawn. The tablet was still on the table, along with the dried untouched plater. The car was gone. Judith cleaned up and busied herself with chores; there was little enough to do. The tablet was unlocked and intuitive, easy for her to use. It held her attention most of the day, a window to elsewhere. The world was no kinder now than in her memory, but the weight of it seemed far away. She did not see Natasha until the evening again, and even then, the other woman barely touched her plate.

They ran out of labelled containers.

Natasha did not mention it. If anything she avoided talking about James at all, as if he’d never been there. As if Judith didn’t catch her, sometimes, staring at the closed door to his room. What she did, instead, was spend a whole lot of time in the basement. She left the door open, she wasn’t hiding. Judith tried not to pry, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. She would catch bursts of conversation and though the words meant nothing most of the time, the tone did. It was anger and worry. And the despair of love. She’d ventured down into the basement once, with a tray of coffee and scones with jam. It was a brightly lit place, filled with structural steel mesh displays. It was an armoury and a locker room, weapons of all shapes mounted on the walls, with conspicuous empty spans. A whole wall was covered with printed pictures and document cut-outs (the texts heavily redacted in globs of black ink). They were linked with tape and bits of string. It made no sense to her so she left it alone. The tray was brought back to the kitchen, untouched except for the coffee. A box of meal replacement bars went missing from the cupboard. 

The tablet remained, and soon a larger screen joined it in the living room. Judith set it to play nature documentary about bears or big savannah cats. Big wild things, far away, fearless and free. When Natasha came up for air and natural light, or when she went out of the house, she would turn it to the news scanning setting. The change didn’t usually come with the shattering sound of ceramic on the floor. Judith glanced up from her book, startled. Natasha was standing transfixed, the thankfully lukewarm coffee splattered up her leg and puddled around her bare toes. The bright nail polish looked even brighter, like strange jewels in the dark liquid. 

Judith got up carefully and grabbed a cloth from the kitchen. She threw it into the liquid then picked up the biggest shards and moved them out of the way.

“Ok, easy, let’s get you sitting down,” she said, gently grabbing Natasha’s shoulders to direct her to the couch.

“Do _not_ tell me what to do.” Natasha shook off her grip but sat down anyway. Blood bloomed on the floor where she stepped.

“I just don’t want you to—” Judith said, cutting herself off almost as soon as she started. “Too late, ok, let’s get that cleaned up.” She picked up the glass shards and rummaged through the bathroom for the first aid kit. She glanced at the television when she came back to the living room. The footage was looping between a few shaky cell phone recordings, out of focus for the most part. From what she could see there was a large car wreck, somewhere on a wide highway. The scrolling text at the bottom told her it was in Germany. 

“Ok, easy, let’s get the glass shard out of there,” she said, kneeling in front of Natasha. “Then we’ll need to bandage it. It’s not deep, just hold still, this won’t hurt.” 

“Stop pretending.” Natasha’s voice had turned cold. Or rather not cold, but the emotions seemed leached out of it, making it flat and distant. Her eyes were wide and empty, but looking at Judith now, instead of the screens. Assessing.

Judith blinked. “Pretending what?” 

“That you care. That everything is fine.” She moved her feet out of Judith’s grasp. “That you can take his place.” 

“I’m not. I do care.” She handed over the tweezers, watching with queasy fascination as Natasha pulled the glass from her own flesh. She wasn’t even flinching. “And I’m not trying to take James’ place. I could never. I mean he claimed you first and you’ve been together for a long time obviously…” Laughter drowned her words. Dry, humourless, closer to the hungry barks of the hyena’s packs. Natasha was looking at her, somewhere between furious and bewildered.

“Are you really that dense?” she asked. “We… I… “ She took a deep breath. Somehow she smoothed her face into an expression of bored detachment. Judith didn’t dare move. With the mask back into place, she couldn’t read her at all, and it was amply evident she’d been reading her wrong the whole time. She had thought she was safe with her. “Bucky plays pretend and I appreciate it, but we’re not… we’re complicated. You, you on the other hand...” She gestured at the house, at the garden and everything in between. “You, I don’t get. We ripped you from your entire life. You should be furious at us. You should be kicking and screaming the whole way down. How _damaged_ are you?”

Judith backed away until her shoulders hit the coffee table. The ashen taste of anger was back in her mouth, the twisted knots in her stomach. “And what if I was? Where would you have me go? What would you have me do? I’ve seen you train. I can’t outrun either of you. I can’t hide. I don’t even know where I am. I have nowhere to go back to, because you took that as well.” Her voice rose despite herself until she was biting off the words. They were true, all true.

“I’m sorry,” said Natasha. “And I shouldn’t have insulted you.”

“There’s bandages and antiseptic wipes in the kit,” said Judith, gathering her skirt and standing up. She walked away and, for the first time, closed the door of her room behind her. 

She didn’t hear the plane thing come back, so maybe it hadn’t and he’d found his own way home. But when Judith woke up in the middle of the night, James was there. The door to his room was open, the bedside lamp on. He was rolled on his side, metal arm hidden in the messy sheets, and curled into as small a ball as he could. He was trembling, long body shivers as if he was cold. Natasha sat on the bed beside him, singing softly. Old songs, pop songs that hadn’t been popular since the 40s. 

Judith stepped forward towards the door, stopped when Natasha shook her head. She was still running her hand through James’ hair, and under the soft singing she could hear him. He was talking, chattering syllables, over and over like a mantra. 

“"К службе готов," he said, "Готов отвечать." 

Judith looked at them, and the anger faded from her, a little. They were also hurting. She could forgive them, even if she could do nothing else. 


	4. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the smut.

The world came crashing down on a rainy morning, in the early days of August. It wasn’t a storm; there was no thunder. Just curtains of rain that would course through the valley, back and forth as the wind shifted. Water pooled between the stones of the patio and ran down the driveway in cascades and rivulets. The sound of the rain was soothing against the glass and wood, and it had lulled Judith into a strange, placid mood. It wasn’t joy or true happiness, but it wasn’t sadness or hurt. Contentment, maybe. She didn’t flinch when James walked in, talking softly on his phone in Russian, which she knew meant he was probably talking about her. Didn’t move at all until the television flickered on and the journalist’s voice broke the pattern of the rain.

 _“The following may not be suitable for sensitive audiences.”_ The image faded out to a reporter on the field, clutching an oversized microphone with a big, black, foam wind guard. He was standing by the gates of Haven. It looked smaller, painted in the artificial colours of the camera feed. She could still see the wrought iron bars and the locks, the buildings a bit further behind. But it looked wrong, foreboding and stifling. It looked like a jail. The lights of the police cars bounced off it and off the trees, the blue and red flashes making her eyes water. 

_“Thank you, Julia. We’re on location as local law enforcement officers are inspecting the buildings behind me. A few hours ago some footage from inside this compound was sent to every media and law enforcement agency, and it sparked an immediate response. We’re not being allowed in at the moment, but a police spokesman told us ambulances left with three people, and that their situations are stable.”_

_“Thank you, Shawn. We’ll keep an eye on the situation. For those at home just joining us, we’ll be presenting some of the footage that was sent to our office. Viewer discretion is advised as some images are hard to see. A press conference has been announced, and we will have more information at 2 p.m.”_

Judith scrambled for the remote control, muting the sound as the images appeared. She knew some of the places, recognized them. The communal kitchens and living areas. The dorms where she had slept with other workers, huddled for warmth on the futon padding on the floor. It looked so crude in the images, the thin blankets and the bleary-eyed women moving around. 

Other buildings she’d never been in, hadn’t been assigned to. The large multi-floor house that welcomed the nursery and the children. The room with cribs and the refrigerators filled with mother’s milk and the caretakers handling the babies, some of them barely more than girls themselves. The classrooms with the children, staggered in ages. The teenagers in the last one, fewer of them, and almost all girls. There had been a healthy mix of little boys in the other rooms, where had they gone as they aged?

The last was the ritual house, the vast open space, candlelit and peaceful in her mind. The reality of it seemed so boring, whitewashed walls and tiled floors. Then the second floor where she’d never been allowed to go, a series of rooms with curtains for doors and only mattresses on the floor for furniture. And the scared, tearful look of the woman (girls!) in them as the curtains fluttered.

There was no air in the room, no air in the house. Judith could taste bile rising in her throat, she couldn’t breathe. She stumbled towards the door, towards the vastness of outside. The rain was cold on her back, and the mud soaked through the fabric of her skirts. She screamed there, wordless. Screamed for the faith she had followed and she could now see had only betrayed her. Screamed for the pain she’d never let herself feel, for the fear, for the others she had let get hurt because it was the thing to do. Screamed and screamed and screamed.

A warm weight fell over her back, and the cold of the rain stopped hitting her. She blinked and looked over her shoulder, recognizing the large raincoat as one of James’. He was standing a few steps back, holding an umbrella. She wiped her face, trying to clear the tears and snot but only smearing mud from her hands. She’d slammed them on the ground at some point and her palms hurt from the small rocks.

“Are you going to tell me to come inside?” she asked, without moving. 

“No,” he said. There was kindness in his voice, but no pity. She didn’t know if it made it worse or not.

Judith closed her eyes and turned her face to the rain, letting it wash her clean, make her numb. He didn’t move until she did, her legs shaking from the shivers that made her teeth clatter. He brought her towels, when she stepped back into the house. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, once she’d warmed up.

She shook her head, hiding her face in the towels. She wanted to take the day back and rewind. She wanted the blissful wool of if not innocence then denial to cover her eyes again. The house was silent around her. Natasha had been gone for nearly two weeks now, and James never made much noise. 

“That’s where she is, right?”

“Yes.”

Judith nodded. She was tired and there was a tightness behind her eyes, reaching to squeeze around her skull. Probably a headache from the crying. She realized she’d grown unused to pain, and the thought only made it worse. “The others?”

“As many as she could get out got out before we sent out the tapes.” A chair scraped across the floor, and when Judith looked over, he was sitting on a kitchen chair, flipped so he was leaning over the back of it. “Natasha’s been working on the extraction plans since we got you out. Some of the true believers wouldn’t leave, but the children were all evacuated.”

“Why?” 

“Because the authorities have bad track records in these situations. We wanted to get the civilians out. Give them a choice about going public with everything. They said yes.”

“No. I mean, why me?” She winced and rubbed her forehead. “Can I have some water?”

“Sure.” She didn’t hear him move, wasn’t really expecting to. “Here,” he said, much closer. She opened her eyes, and he was kneeling in front of her, holding a bottle of water. It wasn’t too cold, it’d been out and sitting for a while. He’d been preparing for this. She wondered how long, exactly, he’d been preparing for her to break down. “Do you want me to go back in the other room?” he asked. Judith shook her head and drank the water.

“We were asked to get you out. Hired, actually.” He said it matter of factly as if people were hired for kidnappings all the time, like hiring a plumber or someone to fix your roof. “Do you remember Sarah?”

“She died.” 

“They certainly tried. But no, she escaped. Made her way to safety. Eventually found your grandparents, got in touch with us.”

“You’re lying. My sister is dead.” Judith felt like she should be crying again, but her eyes were itchy and dry. James didn’t answer. “You’ve done this before?” she asked when speaking became easier. It brought her mind away from Sarah, where it was safer.

“Yes. Natasha and me… we’ve had people hurt and punish us. We know what it’s like, to be broken. We can help, now, so we do.”

It was an answer and it wasn’t one. There was too much he was leaving unsaid, but prying would have been rude. “I’m tired,” she whispered after a while. “I’m just tired.”

“Get some rest, change into dry clothes. Do you want me to wake you up for meals?”

“No.” She got up and he rose with her, getting out of her way. For once Judith wished James wasn’t always so careful about not touching her; that she wasn’t so scared of being touched. There was a part of her, still screaming, wanting to be held and comforted. “Thank you for telling me,” Judith said instead.

She stopped by the bathroom to drop off the sodden towels. The bright pink razor was gone from the medicine cabinet. Judith wondered if the knives would be gone from the kitchen too if she went to check. 

She didn’t know what time it was when she woke up, other than it was dark. Judith’s head pounded and strained with dehydration and hunger, and she shuffled to the kitchen by muscle memory alone. The house wasn’t big, it hadn’t taken any time at all to learn how to navigate it without turning on the lights, or without making the floors creak. Bottles of water were lined up on the counter, along with a tiny dish that held two translucent gel pills. Painkillers, but the bottle was no doubt out of reach. Judith didn’t look for the knives. She was obviously on some version of suicide watch. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, the attention was touching. On the other, it was infantilizing, one more decision made for her because she was seen as unfit to make it for herself.

Individual portions of soup lined a shelf of the refrigerator, something tomato based with beans and cubed vegetables. She ate it cold, washing the medicine down with the broth and pushing at the rest with her fingers. If they were going to treat her like a child she might as well act like one. She left the empty bowl and drained water bottle in the sink, where they could see it and know she’d been up and out. Mark it up in whatever tracking chart they kept. Judith felt better, the cotton wool feeling receding. Maybe she could find some music to listen to and go back to bed. Sleep was enticing; if she slept, she couldn’t think. 

A short, cut-off cry made her stop her movement. It was barely a sound at all, a wisp of voice. Then it came again, just as soft but less like a voice, more like a breath. Judith followed the sound, step by step to the hallway, right up to the door of Natasha’s room. The door was partially opened; it had probably been closed at some point, but the latch didn’t catch properly. It had never been an issue. Natasha’s room looked like something out of a magazine’s page, had probably been put together that way: a cohesive whole with a touch of eclectic chic. Every single item curated, tasteful. But it was someone else’s taste; it said nothing about Natasha. Or it usually didn’t. Light flickered over the room, catching on the carefully positioned modern art decoration, casting fantastical shadows. Every flat surface, from the dresser to the writing desk and the window sill seat had been covered in large pillar candles, flames dancing from every direction. 

Natasha was there, had probably gotten home while Judith was sleeping. James was with her. Judith knew she should leave, or reach and close the door, avert her eyes and forget about it. She was violating their privacy and they would be hurt or disgusted or furious. A part of her wanted them to be, to be hurt because she was hurting. The rest of her was curious and fascinated, she yearned. She stayed still, holding her breath.

Hair hid Natasha’s face, coppery in the glow of the candles, shorter than it had been, about to her shoulders. The ends looked singed and uneven. She was wearing the silky blue top, plastered to her back with sweat. The lace edge moved with her, revealing bruises and scratches on her legs. Red and angry lines that looked just wide enough to be from a belt on the swell of her backside. 

Beneath her James laid very still, flat on his back and his head thrown back. His flesh hand was on her knee, his thumbs pressing circles there. Judith could see the tension in his throat as he swallowed, the heaving of his chest as he breathed. Natasha shifted her hands on his chest, dug her nails in. He exhaled in a gasp but didn't cry out again.

Judith felt heat stir low in her stomach, and for the first time in her life, she wasn’t afraid of it. There were greater sins in play in the moment, above and beyond her being human. 

“Touch me,” said Natasha, barely above a whisper but it was a demand not a request. He traced figures on her legs, around the bruises, raising under the robin egg blue of her top. Judith could see more marks there, when the fabric moved, a large one over the ribs was shaped like a bootprint. Natasha didn’t flinch, the touch must have been very light. Careful. He didn’t move otherwise, though there was a tremble in him. He was staying still on purpose, only responding to her demands. 

The implications of it felt huge and staggering. Like something twisted into place, or the moment the optician finally pushed the right lens into place. The encounter between them was being driven by Natasha’s needs — what she wanted and what she was taking. Her entire life, Judith had never even been allowed to think that this could be possible, acted upon. Moments where the needs of the man might not be all that was important. Judith watched as Natasha rolled her hips, in long slow movements, her thighs quivering from the effort, head down and still hidden by her hair. She heard James’ voice in her mind, asking her what she wanted. She knew what he meant now. That she was allowed to want. 

Natasha’s rhythm changed, sped up. She said something in Russian, and James moved in earnest for the first time. His hands dropped to her hips, holding her as he surged against her, rising to mouth at her breast through the lingerie. Natasha was dragging her hands through his hair and down his shoulders, hard enough to leave marks. Her breathing stuttered and she clung to him, letting him take now that she was satisfied. 

He collapsed on the bed, boneless and his movements as disjointed as she’d ever seen them. He looped his arms around Natasha, loosely, as she stretched against his chest. He didn’t seem to mind the weight of her.

“Hi,” she said, dropping a kiss on his lips.

“Hello to you too.” He grinned, like a lazy, content cat in the sunlight. “You know, we have got to find distraction tactics that don’t require you acting like bait.”

“Mmmm,” Natasha replied, dismissive and neither approving or disapproving. Acknowledging the words. “Stay?” 

Judith backed away from the door, hand clasped over her mouth to stifle any noise, until she was safely back in her room with the door closed. There had been longing and yearning in that word. The purest expression of vulnerability. Somehow, she felt more wrong for having seen that, having seen either of them stripped of their defence than having watched the physical congress.

The next morning was awkward. 

Now that she knew what to look for, Judith could see the slightly easier slope of Bucky’s shoulders, the soft smile he didn’t quite hide. He was in the kitchen, mixing and matching grains and seeds from different jars, spreading them on a baking tray. Fresh fruits and yogurt and granola, Natasha’s favourite breakfast. 

“I saw you last night,” said Judith. She didn’t see any approach that would be less uncomfortable and the truth had always sat with her best. “I want that.”

He chuckled, part startled and part embarrassed. “I’m not the one you want, Judith. Natasha can handle me if I lose my control but —”

“No. I want to be able to have that. To have someone I trust like that.”

“Oh.” His smile broadened. “Then we’ll drive into town later. Sounds like you’re ready to rejoin life.”


End file.
